He poked his head in. The moonlight made it bright enough to see that her small room was empty and undisturbed.
"Well," she said. "Night."
"Night." He smiled knowingly, and she couldn't help smiling back. It was partly nerves, but it was also because being with him made her feel good. Made her feel like laughing. She waited, barely breathing, for the moment, the first movement toward her. She wasn't expecting it when he took off his hat. He dropped it on top of the dahlia stake she'd stuck in the ground yesterday, and she shivered to think it was because he wanted his hands free.
"Cold?"
"No." She was just rubbing her arms for the heck of it.
He covered her hands with his big ones, those handsome, long-fingered hands she'd been looking at all night. She stopped her nervous chafing. Very slowly, so she could pull away if she wanted to, he took her hands and put them on his shoulders. Pressed them there, gave them a little pat, then hooked his fingers at the back of her neck and drew her up close.
It was the first time she'd touched him. He had touched her—that day in front of her mirror—but this was the first time she'd touched him. She was acutely aware of that as she molded her palms over hard muscle and bone, warming skin, soft linen. He slipped his fingers into her hair, cupping the back of her head. Tipping her chin up, he surprised her by kissing it. She smiled, and he kissed one side of her mouth and then the other. His mustache tickled. He was just the right height, tall but not too tall; even this close, she didn't have to crane her neck to see him. Kiss him.
She kissed him. Couldn't stand the wait any longer, nice as these nibbling preliminaries were. She put her hands on either side of his face and brought her mouth to his, brushing lips with him. Someone said, "Mmmm," she wasn't sure if it was him or her, maybe both, and her thoughts started to scatter.
He said, "Cady," a wisp of a word in his throaty whisper, pressing her back. She liked it, the door frame behind her, Jesse's long, hard body in front, leaning into her, pressing against her. She murmured, "Jessss," and squeezed him tight, feeling so strong and competent, and in the next second a delicious weakness washed over her, sapping all her strength.
She sighed. She let her head fall back. She felt the toe of his boot slide between her shoes—just that— pushing her feet, her legs, a little bit farther apart, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach. She clung to him, twisting her head from one side to the other, loving the feel of his hot mouth on her throat. She hadn't been expecting this. A good-night kiss, she'd thought, not this long, sweet ravishment. How could she stop? "Jesse..."
He moved lower, touching her skin with his tongue. She put her hands in his hair, breathing deeply, arching her back. She felt his teeth on the swell of her bosom, a wide, soft horsebite that made her laugh, breathless, and made sparks shoot down, straight down into her vitals. In one smooth move, he slipped his hand inside her gown and held her naked breast, at the same time he lifted his head and kissed her full on the mouth.
She moaned. He murmured something. She couldn't make it out; something sweet, complimentary. Not for a second did she feel maneuvered or manipulated—because she knew he was as aroused, as surprised by this as she was.
But she said, "Wait... Jesse, wait..." when his hand on her waist stroked down to the front of her thigh, twisting in the fabric of her skirt, making a gentle grab for her crotch. Too fast. Men were always too fast.
"Okay," he conceded, "okay," breathing hard against the side of her neck. He took his hand away. And kissed her again, sliding his tongue in her mouth.
Oh, God. But she knew exactly what she was doing. A few more seconds of this, that was all she'd let him have, because then it really had to... it really had to...
"Stop."
She couldn't believe it when he did. Stopped. Right away—no whining, no pretending he didn't hear or he was too carried away to obey. He stepped back and let her catch her breath, not holding anything but her hand.
"Want to go for a ride with me tomorrow?"
"Umm." A ride? What was tomorrow?
"You ride, don't you? Horses," he specified when she kept frowning at him. "Wake up," he whispered, leaning in to kiss the tip of her nose.
That was how she felt, groggy, as if she'd been sleeping and dreaming the loveliest dream. "I don't ride very well." Oh, and "I don't have a horse."
"You could rent one from Nestor. I have a great horse." She smiled—he looked so pleased with himself. "Where would we go, Cady? You could show me the country. I haven't been anywhere but here since I got here."
"Jesse." Now she was waking up. "I'm busy tomorrow."
"All day?"
She nodded.
"What about Saturday?"
"No. Can't."
"How come?"
"Busy."
He kept his smile, but let go of her hand. "Sunday," he said softly, not a question this time. She looked down.
"Any point in me going through the rest of the week? I'll do it if it'll work."
"Jesse, listen." She was glad when he backed up another step; it gave her room to think. "I just... I just don't see any point to it. You and me going for a ride or anything."
"Why not?"
Because you're a hired gunfighter! How many men have you killed? That's what she should've asked him, not where he was born or if his childhood was happy. How can you shoot a man down in the street for money?
"Why not, Cady?"
She shook her head. Should she tell him? What if he got mad at her? What in the world made her think she could trust this man? He was smiling at her, a stiff, sad smile that might've melted her heart if it hadn't tripped a memory. She'd read somewhere that Billy the Kid was always smiling. Billy the Kid was a real friendly fellow. He smiled while he drew on men and shot them dead.
"You know—it's late," she said abruptly. "I think we'd better say good night. Levi will want to lock up." He made a movement toward her. Instinctively, she shrank back, into her open doorway. She watched his face go from surprise to understanding, then cynicism. Her heart sank.
His lips curled. "Oh, now I get it. It's okay to kiss me here in the dark, but not go for a ride with me in broad daylight. Why didn't you just say so?"
She twisted her hands, miserable.
"Fine. That's fine. Believe me, my heart's not broken." He started backing away. "Besides, you've got that solid gold reputation of yours to uphold. Don't forget that. No, sir. Wouldn't want anybody to find out the lady blackjack dealer and saloon owner went out riding horses with Jesse Gault."
He spun on his heel, went four steps down the walk, spun back around, and strode toward her. She thought he wanted his hat, which was still dangling on the dahlia stake. "I take that back. Didn't mean that last part. Forget I said it. Okay?" he demanded when she only stared at him.
"Okay."
"Okay. Good night." He jammed his hat on and walked away again. This time he kept going.
Cady dropped down on the stoop. "Boo?" she called plaintively. The cat ignored her, didn't come out to comfort her. She could've used some comforting. She replayed the scene with Jesse in her mind a few times, giving it different endings. They got more and more daring, the endings; more and more injurious to her solid gold reputation.
She stayed outside until the moon went down, brooding and sighing, mulling and sulking. When her rear end got sore, she went in and got undressed for bed. "Oh, forget it," she muttered to herself, settling the covers around her. "Just go to sleep and forget it." She was giving herself the same advice at dawn.
Seven
Jesse came into Jacques' restaurant the next day while Cady was eating her lunch. Unthinkingly, out of nothing but habit, she smiled, even started to reach for her glass and the salt shaker—move them out of the way so he could sit down with her. She stopped herself when he touched his hat and walked on by, heading for an empty table in the corner.
She froze, then went hot all over. Men didn't snub her very often. Women did, but not men. You deserve it, an unwelcome
little voice informed her—the voice of her conscience. Do not, she argued, rattling the newspaper, drawing her conscience's attention to it. If anything justified her decision to stay away from Jesse Gault, installment two of Will Shorter's interview with him did. And Jesse could try all he liked to make himself sound like a cross between Robin Hood and Sir Galahad, but nothing got around the fact that he'd killed so many men he'd lost track of the number. "Ten or twelve," Will quoted him as saying. "Or maybe it's fifteen by now."
Of course, they were all asking for it. They all drew first, every one of them, and they were all rotten hombres or low-down card cheats or thieves or degenerates who deserved what they got. And Gault was an avenging angel, a victim, a reluctant hero, an innocent bystander. A righter of wrongs with two smoking six-guns. Funny how his image kept changing. Interesting how he kept reinventing himself. She remembered when he was a cold-blooded hired killer who'd just as soon shoot you as look at you. When was that, a week ago? Now he rolled in the dirt with children, when he wasn't mugging and preening for photographs with awestruck townsfolk. Or charming the pantaloons off jaded lady saloonkeepers...
She snuck a glance at him over her coffee cup. He looked away fast—he'd been staring at her. He looked back, nodded to her with a quick smile that didn't reach his eyes, and started to read the menu. Since he ate here every day, and since Jacques' menu hadn't changed since 1878, she knew he was pretending.
Well, this was stupid. Last night they'd kissed, and today they couldn't even talk to each other.
Jacques' daughter came over to take Jesse's order. Michele was a plain, full-hipped, big-bosomed girl with a sweet, shy manner. She leaned toward Jesse. He said something that made her throw her head back and laugh. Cady's mouth dropped open. She hardly ever got so much as a smile out of Michele, the girl was so bashful. Well, it ought not to surprise her. Glendoline got sillier by the day over Gault, and now Willagail was starting. Maggie McGurke, the girl Cady employed to change linens and clean the guest rooms, came down every afternoon with new stories about what he'd said to her, the joke he'd told her, the wonderful way he'd flirted with her. And just this morning Enid Duff, the postmistress, an old maid if there ever was one, had tried to pry information about him out of Cady. "Is he married?" she had actually asked.
But the last straw was Lia Chang, the laundry-man's daughter, the girl Levi was trying to court by reading books about Buddha. "He belly handsome man," she'd confided to Cady behind her father's counter, handing over Cady's clean, folded laundry. "Belly kind man."
"Kind? Lia, he's a killer."
"Oh, no." She smiled calmly, beatifically. "He not kirrer."
"But he says he is. He admits it."
Her lovely, moon-shaped face stayed placid and serene. She said no more, and Cady got the distinct feeling she was humoring her.
It was all so ridiculous. How could grown women throw away every bit of their common sense just because a man was good-looking? A little mysterious? And funny. Sexy as hell.
She took the opportunity to stare at him while he spread butter on a piece of cornbread. She liked the way his hair grew. It was too long, but it always looked neat anyway. Shiny black-and-silver hair that flowed through your fingers like... the silk tassels on her paisley shawl. She liked the way he carried himself, too; he could slouch and keep his nice broad shoulders straight at the same time. He had one long leg crossed over the other, and she couldn't take her eyes off the tight pull of worn black denim seam down the length of his thigh. "He sleeps buck naked," Maggie McGurke had informed her and Willagail this morning. How do you know? Cady had started to ask, but stopped herself. She didn't want to know.
Now he had his elbows on the table, hands steepled, tapping his fingertips together while he stared off into space. He looked—oh, this was silly, and yet—he really did look... a little lonely. But pretending not to be. That's what got her. He adjusted his silverware, lined it up just so, picked up his empty glass and studied the manufacturer's mark on the bottom, set it carefully back down. Folded his hands on the edge of the table and frowned into the distance, as if thinking deep thoughts.
She thought about his apology last night. "Didn't mean that last part. Forget I said it, okay?" What he'd said had hurt. But he'd regretted it. He hadn't wanted her to be in pain for longer than about thirty seconds.
She stood up. The swiftness with which he looked over told her he'd been aware of her the whole time, not thinking deep thoughts at all. A few heads turned as she made her way to his table. What was she going to say? She didn't know until she said it.
"I didn't explain myself very well last night." He shoved his chair back and stood up—a courtesy she wasn't used to. "In fact," she added nervously, "I didn't explain myself at all."
"It doesn't matter," he said with an airy wave. But his gray eyes pierced her.
She was still holding the newspaper. "I've been reading about you. The life you've led. All the men you've..." Saying the word seemed rude, so she let that sentence dangle.
He grinned at her. "Pretty exciting, huh?"
"No, it's barbaric." His face fell. "Even allowing for bragging and exaggeration—"
"Hey, I wasn't bragging," he interrupted, offended. "And I never exaggerate."
"Then that makes it even worse. A woman would have to be out of her mind to want anything to do with Jesse Gault." She laid the folded-up newspaper on the table and tapped on it with her knuckles. This Jesse Gault, she meant.
"Wait now, you know you can't believe everything you read in the papers."
"Well, make up your mind! Is this stuff true or isn't it?"
He dipped his head, rubbing the back of his neck while he peered at her through his eyelashes. "Well, yeah. Sure, it's true, I told you. But still."
"Still?"
"Still. Couldn't you get around it? Overlook it?"
"Jesse—" She glanced around, lowered her voice. "Jesse, you kill people."
"Well, right, yeah, but..." He stuck his fingers in his hair and pulled, frowning, thinking hard. "But, hell, Cady, it's not like I'm going to kill you."
Her jaw dropped. He cocked his head, trying a boyish grin on her, trying to get her to smile back. "This," she said seriously, backing up, "is the strangest conversation I have ever had."
"Wait. Maybe I could reform. Hey, Cady? Wait a sec, let's talk about it!"
But she hurried back to her table, put money on it for Michele, and bustled out of Jacques' without turning around or saying good-bye. She needed fresh air, the dusty street under her feet, reality.
He was too good-looking—that had to be it. Because for half a second, "It's not like I'm going to kill you" had actually sounded reasonable to her. Oh, she had to stay away from Jesse Gault! Compared to him, a loaded gun was as safe as a puppy!
****
The next day she was still thinking about him. She sat at her desk in her tiny office, gazing into space instead of updating her inventory lists and reconciling her bankbook, two Saturday chores she always got out of the way before lunchtime. But today the columns of numbers danced out of focus every time she tried to stare them down. She'd given up; with Boo purring on her lap, she'd abandoned herself to full-time daydreaming.
"Miz Cady?"
She looked up and smiled at Ham, happy for any diversion. His wide-eyed, clean-scrubbed face was very dear to her; in two years, she'd come to adore Levi's little boy. "What? Come on in. What are you up to?"
"Poppy say come back an' tell you." He sidled up to her, leaning against her shoulder so he could see what she was doing. "You payin' bills?" His enormous brown eyes warmed sympathetically; he knew how she hated this job.
"Nope, not right now. Boy, you smell good. What'd you do, take a bath?" She gave him a squeeze, even stole a kiss on his sweet-smelling neck. He pretended to be embarrassed, but she knew he liked it. "So what are you supposed to tell me?"
"Oh. Joe Redleaf, he come in an' want to see you."
"Joe? He's here? Now?"
"Yep. H
e wearing a suit."
"Goodness." She stood up, brushing eraser crumbs from her skirt, patting her hair into place.
"You like him?" Ham asked interestedly, watching her hurried primping.
"Well, of course. I've always liked Joe." She chucked Ham under the chin and didn't tack on, Just not as much as he's always liked me.
"Joe!"
He was standing at the bar, talking to Levi. He turned, and his strong, serious face broke into a rare grin. Rushing over, she gave him an exuberant hug; but when he tried to kiss her on the mouth, she laughed and gave him her cheek.
"Look at you! I haven't seen you since—when, Christmas? Oh, you look wonderful." She held him at arm's length, sweeping him with a long, up-and-down appraisal. He looked so much older, like a man instead of a boy. He did have on a suit, but the coat was frayed at the cuffs and a little threadbare around the collar. A secondhand suit, then. Somehow that made him look even more dignified.
"You look wonderful," he said with feeling, and she laughed again, basking in Joe's admiration. She was used to it, but she didn't take it for granted. She realized she'd even missed it.
"How long have you been home?" she asked, taking his hand and leading him to an empty table. "Levi," she threw over her shoulder, "bring Joe a beer and me a lemonade."
"Since Wednesday."
"Wednesday."
"And I have to go back on Monday."
"Oh." She made a disappointed face. "How are your parents?"
He rolled his eyes. "The same." Which explained why he'd been in town for three whole days without coming to see her. The Redleafs were dirt-poor and very proud, with sky-high hopes for a son who was so brilliant they were half afraid of him. Cady couldn't really blame them for not being thrilled about the passion he'd developed two years ago, at the age of eighteen, for a saloon girl. True, she owned the saloon now, but that hadn't lifted her up one inch in the Redleafs' estimation. If anything, she'd sunk a notch.
"Do they know you're here?" she asked. Joe shrugged, which meant no.
Levi brought their drinks, and Cady lifted her glass in a toast. "To you, Joe. To old friends."
Gaffney, Patricia Page 12